The 72nd Annual Hunger Games
by Bethius
Summary: Primarily about the female District 12 tribute of the 72nd Hunger Games, will contain quite strong violence and possibly some language. Enjoy :D This is my first FanFiction, and feedback would be appreciated!
1. Chapter 1 - The 72nd Annual Hunger Games

Reaping day. Great. I can hear Effie's voice in my head, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!" The 72nd annual Hunger Games. It's a wonder they kept it going for so long. Feels like it will never end.

I drag myself out of bed reluctantly, and then walk downstairs. Mum and dad are already up, as usual, except they're not sewing or arranging the fabrics that we sell in the shop window.

"Morning, ma. Morning, da," I say sluggishly, rubbing the sleep dust from my aching eyes. They both nod at me solemnly, as bright and cheery as everyone else in District 12 on reaping day. Knowing that one of their children could be dead within a few days.

Drata appears at the doorway, her fair hair tied up with a ribbon, already brushed. She wears the dress that our parents made for her this year - pale pink, knee length with a white sash, and embroidered daisies growing from the bottom that are, in my opinion, a little over the top. Her pale blue eyes match the colour of the ribbon holding her hair in place perfectly, and dimly reflect the little light in the room. The black leather shoes, of which our brother Hrota and I have identical pairs of, shine weakly like moons shrouded in cloud.

"Morning," she mumbles. I feel sorry for her; it's her first reaping, the worst of all. "I tried to get Hrota up but he doesn't want to. Will you get him up, Fiara?"

"Sure," I reply. "Make sure you get something to eat." I give her a hug, and she smiles appreciatively.

"Fiara, I'm scared," she whispers.

"It's okay. None of us will get chosen. I promise." I whisper back, desperately hoping that I'm right.

I walk back upstairs lazily- we have hours before the reaping, so there's no need to rush - and turn to the door on my immediate left, pushing it open slowly.

"Hrota," I whisper. "Hrota. You have to get up."

Hrota grunts, and throws a pillow at my head, which I swiftly dodge.

"Hey, get up lazy bones," I tease.

"I don't wanna," he growls. "Leave me alone!"

I see this as an opportunity to get my brother back after he tied my shoelaces together and I fell face first down the staircase last week.

"Okay then, if you don't want any pancakes, that's fine by me."

Hrota sits up sharply.

"Pancakes? The ones that the Mellarks make?" He eyes me suspiciously. "Why would we have pancakes?"

"It's Drata's first reaping. Mum and dad want to make her feel better." Hrota seems to believe me, since he leaps out of bed and charges down the stairs. I race after him, suppressing a giggle. He charges through the door to the kitchen, almost detaching it from its hinges. Shocked, our parents walk towards Hrota, who is panting heavily from exerting energy so early in the morning and somewhat resembles a crazy grizzly bear. His mud coloured, shoulder length hair hangs scruffily in front of his face, covering his brilliant blue eyes and nose that is still crooked from the time that he got into a fight with one of his friends at school. Drata starts to laugh, which sets me off as well. Soon enough everyone is laughing except Hrota, who has realised that I lied about the pancakes and is sulking in the corner.

After eating a relatively normal breakfast of bread and cheese, I head upstairs to change into my dress. As I open the door, excitement fills me; mum took it up to my room whilst I was still eating, and I haven't seen it yet. But when I remember the reason for which it was made, and the enthusiasm leaves again. Then I see it.

The most beautiful garment I have ever seen; the same brilliant blue colour as my eyes, with a paler blue sash, made entirely from a smooth material that could not be silk, as we cannot afford to wear silken clothing ourselves, but is so similar that only a tailor could tell the two fabrics apart. Shiny metal buttons line one side of the dress, that look slightly out of place, but tastefully so. As I examine it more closely, I see small, white beads sewn into the neckline, all unique and all beautiful. And for a moment I feel like the luckiest girl in all of Panem.

Mum comes in as I button up the dress. It fits me perfectly, of course, and hangs just above my knees. She smiles as I run to hug her. Then, without a word, I sit on the bed and she brushes my long, wavy blonde hair, as she does every year. And we just sit there, silently, thinking about the thing that nobody in Panem will be able to take their minds off this morning.

The Hunger Games.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Reaping

"They'll prick your finger, Drata, but it won't hurt too much," Hrota reassures her. "And even if it does hurt, don't say a word - you'd only be feeding the Capitol with your pain."

We walk towards the sign-in station. A crowd of people push into us. Whirling around, I see another huge crowd heading straight for us. Drata looks scared.

"Drata, we'll probably get split up now, so just join the queue and find someone you know, go stand with them, don't worry, you'll be fine," I say to her, and I manage to catch her anxious nod before the crowd plough through us and we are separated.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. At first I'm confused, but when I hear her voice in my ear, I know instantly who it is.

"Ready for another reaping?"

I whirl rapidly, and smile.

"Siana! You shocked me!" I shout, playfully punching her arm. She puts her finger on the table in front of us, flinching slightly when it is pricked.

"Of course I did. You know how light footed I am." We both laugh - she couldn't sneak up on the heaviest sleeper in the middle of the night. "So are you?" she asks.

"Am I what?" I reply, confused.

"Are you ready? I know I'm not." she sighs. I put my finger on the table, also flinching at the prick when it comes. The peacekeepers urge us forwards, and we join the rows of the other children waiting for the ceremony to begin. I see Drata near to the front with the other twelve and thirteen year olds, looking back for me and Hrota. I smile faintly and wave, but she doesn't see me and starts to talk to the girl stood next to her.

I turn back to Siana, my expression grim. "How many times this year?" I ask.

"Twenty two," she sighs. There's a long pause. I want to comfort her, but I can think of nothing. "What about you?" she asks dully.

"Well, there's four by default, and another two for extra grain, so six." I feel pathetic for even worrying about being chosen. Some of the kids from the seam have their names in there thirty or forty times. Another long pause. I look into her deep brown eyes, and ruffle her chocolate hair affectionately. "You'll be fine," I say. Tears sting our eyes. "We'll both be fine." We hug, and cry, and stare hopelessly at the glass bowls that will foretell the death of yet another kid from District 12 until we hear his voice.

The Mayor of District 12, telling us all, as he does every year, the story that we have heard a million times before. Looking at Drata and the other 12 and 13 year olds concentrating and listening to every word, I remember being enthralled by the history of Panem, loving to hear the story again and again. Until I saw the devastation that the Hunger Games brought. I zone out of the speech, thinking about whose names will be pulled out of the bowls. I pay little attention to Haymitch, our only living victor, staggering up to the temporary stage, sitting into his chair with a satisfied, drunken grin. I continue thinking about Siana, what I would do if her name was pulled out, or if Hrota or Drata get chosen. My thoughts are cut short by the sound of a strange accent - the Capitol accent, and realise that Effie Trinket has started to speak.

"Happy Hunger Games!" She cries, hiding her disappointment of being stuck with District 12 again behind her overacted enthusiasm. All of the conversations born from the Mayor's speech cease, the atmosphere of the whole overcrowded square become much tenser. She looks slightly crestfallen at the lack of applause, but I doubt that she expected a better outcome.

Effie plasters on her false smile again, her bright green wig moving slightly on her head and matching makeup crinkling from the unnatural strain. She walks towards the spherical bowl that contains the girls' names.

"Ladies first!" she says, as usual, and puts her hand in the glass ball, rummaging around to draw the name of the girl who will die this year.

Everything Time seems to slow down as I say a silent prayer. "Please don't be me, or Siana, or Drata." I reach for Siana's hand, and we clench our fingers together, praying together, hoping that this won't be one of our last moments together.

"Fiara Faust."

I stand there, silently, just like everyone else. Why isn't the tribute moving? She should be going up to the stage now. I don't recognise her name. I don't even remember it. Everyone is looking at me. Siana's crying. She lets go of my hand, and hugs me tight for a long time before letting go. I just stand there. I'm confused. Who was the tribute? Whose name did Effie draw from that glass ball?

Realisation suddenly hits me. Fiara Faust. Fiara Faust. That's my name. Fiara Faust. The tribute is me.

Everything falls apart. Time slows down again. The crowd stuffed into the square fall away, melt into the ground. All I see if Effie on the stage, the Justice Building stood proudly behind her, and the slip of paper with the tribute's name on it - my name. Fiara Faust. It plays again and again, over and over, echoing inside my head, which feels like it is being crushed in a vice.

"Come on up!" I hear Effie encourage, her voice warped in my head. I walk towards the stage, feeling numb. I can't even cry, I'm so shocked.

"Let's have a round of applause for this year's tribute!" She calls. Suddenly, the crowd appear before me again, and everything speeds up once more. Most of the crowd clap wearily, having seen this happen so many times, but I notice Drata, Hrota, Siana, my parents, my friends at school mourning me. When Effie calls for a volunteer, and nobody responds, the last flicker of hope inside of me dies out. I look straight at Drata, and put on the bravest face I can for her, but we both know that I'm dead now. My parents are holding each other, their worst fears realised. Hrota looks devastated. I think he wishes he could have volunteered in my place. It doesn't matter anyway; there's no way I would have let him. Siana is devastated. A few of our other friends and trying to console her, but grateful as she is, I can tell that they aren't doing much good.

I stare into the crowd, and the crowd stare back. A lot of them give me looks so to say, "we'll miss you." I know that there's no chance of me winning, but I still want to believe that someone believes I can. I pay special attention to Effie's hand rummaging in the other glass ball, but I don't say a prayer this time; what good would it do? What good has hoping ever done? She finally draws out the piece of paper. The only sound is that of the paper being unravelled, and my own heart beating. I'm still in a state of shock, and find myself able to convey no emotion. Everything seems to be building up inside of me, and I'm afraid of what will happen when I explode.

The name is called. Theros Hardacre. A seam boy, who looks upset, afraid but almost unsurprised by the result. He's in my class at school. We never talked very much, but he seemed nice enough. Siana knows his family quite well; poor, but hardworking people. Theros was probably one of the unlucky kids who had to enter his name dozens of times for tesserae. I feel sorry for his family; Theros would probably have provided a lot for them, stopped them from starving. It's likely that when he's gone, they'll struggle a lot. They might even starve - I've seen bodies every now and then in the seam. Unless he wins, of course. But that's nearly impossible.

I don't listen to the rest of the reaping. I can't. All I can think about is the pain to come.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Wait

I sit in the Justice building, waiting for them to come see me. I notice the rich velvet sofas, the type of fabric that my parents could only afford to use sparingly. The room is so lavishly decorated, so different from anything else in the district. I start to think about the Capitol, how beautiful it must be. How could something so beautiful harbour such cruel citizens? How could something as "magnificent" as the Capitol create the Hunger Games?

The door opens, and mum, dad, Drata and Hrota rush into the room, a couple of Peacekeepers stood in the doorway. Mum, dad and Drata are all crying, hugging me, telling me how much they love me. I just sit there, being smothered by them, unable to say a word. I glance over at Hrota. He looks similar to how I feel; shocked, confused, unable to speak, cry, move. We just stare into each other's' eyes, and a simultaneous realisation crosses both of us. I'm going to die. And there's nothing that anybody can do about it. And we both began to cry. Then he stops. He walks up to me.

"Don't cry in front of them," he says. "Don't give them that satisfaction."

After a few minutes, they were escorted away by the Peacekeepers. And I know that I will never see them again. And I've never felt so alone.

The door opens again, and Siana runs in. The Peacekeeper stood guarding the door looks at her disapprovingly and tells her to hurry up, and I know that she must have persuaded him to let her in.

Siana grabs me, and doesn't let go. I feel her tears running from my shoulder all the way down my arm. I try not to cry, determined not to let pain and fear take me. I clutch onto the fabric of her dress, hanging on to her. I don't want to ever let her go. I don't want to feel alone again. I want this to be a dream, I want to wake up in my bed, and get dressed, walk downstairs to the main room of the shop and help out with the finances, or hem some dresses, and hug my parents and my sister again. And tell Hrota how sorry I am for all of the pranks I've pulled on him. I want everything to be normal again. But I know they can't. And that's upsetting me.

Siana lets go of me, and for a moment I panic, thinking that she's being taken away, thinking that I'll be alone again. But the Peacekeeper is still at the door. Siana looks straight into my eyes. I feel tears, but remembering what Hrota said, I hold them back. Siana stops crying, but there are streaks down her face and her eyes are red.

"Fiara," she chokes, her voice cracking slightly. "You have to try. I know it doesn't look good, but you can still try. In the arena, know that we are all thinking about you. And don't give up."

"I won't," I reply, and can't help but let a few tears escape my eyes. "I promise."

The Peacekeeper walks towards us, and takes Siana by the arm.

"Time's up, young lady."

I panic, and grab onto her shoulder.

"No, don't take her, please. Don't leave me," I stammer. But the Peacekeeper gently prises my fingers from Siana's shoulder and escorts her out of the room. He turns to me at the doorway, and in a voice that is close to a whisper, only just loud enough for me to hear, he says, "I'm sorry."

Then he leaves, and shuts the door on me, and I'm alone again.

I pick at the velvet sofas, trying to keep myself occupied and take my mind away from my imminent death. I seem to be waiting for a lifetime, the silence overwhelming the room. I so badly want to break it, yet at the same time I want it to last forever; to delay my death forever.

Thinking about Siana again, I feel the tears stinging my eyes. I hold them back – I might be about to let the Capitol take my life, but they will not take my pride from me too. It's so strange, thinking about all of the times I have cried over nothing, but now that I have a reason to cry, I can't. Because of what Hrota said. I can't give the satisfaction of knowing how much they have hurt me.

The truth is, I'm scared – hell, I'm terrified. I don't want to die. I don't want to be a tribute, even though it means that everyone else in the district is safe for another year. I know that if Drata had been chosen, I wouldn't have volunteered. Even though I know that Hrota would have gone in my place if he could. And it makes me sick thinking about how selfish I am, but no matter how hard I try, I can't convince myself that it would be different.

I don't want to leave my family. I don't want to leave Siana. I don't want to leave District 12. I don't want to die. I don't want any of this. But I can't do anything about it. So many injustices, and I can't control anything in my life. Who decides what happens to us? Why do they make us suffer so much? How come some people live their whole lives so comfortably, never have to work for a single thing, yet others are subjected to such tortures as the Hunger Games? I can't let my thoughts out of my head for fear of penetrating the perfect silence which holds me captive, helping me to keep myself together, letting me know that there is at least some purity in the world.

The Peacekeepers come to take me away too soon. I didn't like the loneliness of the room, but being one step closer to the Games – one step closer to death – is much worse.

As we approach the extravagant train, I take a deep breath. I'm not ready to leave everything behind. Effie enthusiastically bounces through the train's doors, saying something that I don't listen to. Theros dejectedly follows. Before entering, I turn around and look out on my district. This is where I grew up. District 12 was my life. I had always expected to die here, in my home; although I constantly ran through in my head being reaped, and having to leave, I had never really thought that it could ever happen – not to me. I look out on my district and I smile for the cameras. Though my red face contradicts the shape that my mouth makes, I still grin, because I am unable to leave my family, my friends – my life – without one final smile.


End file.
